the river thinks in fish. what was it then
that sergeant henley was the first to wrest
from its grasp, its eyes staring yellow, its barbels
two poker hooks around an ash-grey mouth
that made even our dogs whimper?
we are following the rapids and their
raging grammar to the source.
the distant haze of mountains,
grassy plains, and now and then
a native throwing an amused look
in our direction only to vanish
in the forest: all this we enter
on adam’s ancient map, naming
species and deeds. fever in our muscles
and week after week a diet of roots
and trust in god. under our shirts tics
like pearl-headed pins in our skin:
the wilderness taking our measure.
strange feeling being
the frontier, the point of ending
and beginning. at night by the fire our blood
circles above us in clouds of mosquitoes
while we sew the hides together
with hard fish-bones: shoes
for our destination, blankets for our dreams.
before us untouched land, behind us
the raving settlers, their charter
of fences and gates; behind us
the covered wagons of traders,
the big towns, full of noise and future.